


Strayed

by imperfectkreis



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Banter, Dancing, Friendship, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Sometimes the best disguise is hiding in plain sight.The Outsider comes to Dunwall Tower, eats sweets with the Empress, and gives the Royal Protector an ulcer.





	Strayed

It’s the easiest thing in existence for the Outsider to begin. But he is so very unsure how this adventure ends. Isn't that how it always goes? With these magics that he can wield, and almost understand.

Almost.

The Outsider reaches from the Void into Dunwall below, trying to fashion together a body of some substance from the material available within the Tower walls. A bit of whale bone, a bowl of broth, cloth from the draperies, dust and soot clinging in unswept corners. Not everything he chooses is strictly appropriate for the form he tries to build, but he bends and molds the raw materials of life into a slender frame, long legs, a narrow waist, dark eyes with stark whites. His attire at least is suitably in fashion, borrowed from one of the stylish pages who works in the Office of the Liaison to the Abbey. The shoes he chooses are too tight around his toes. He’ll have to change them.

Fully constructed now, he walks through the halls of Dunwall Tower as if he belongs there, hands crossed neatly behind his back. Taking sure steps, he follows the path that will lead him to the Empress’ study. Not a soul disrupts his journey, though he can hear their footsteps ring through the Tower.

Corvo is in a meeting with one of his contacts, an orphan girl of some sort he pays regularly for information regarding foreign ships. She cannot read letters, but she is an expert in the faces of men. Corvo is quite fond of her. The Outsider has seen no future in which she lives past the age of fifteen.

It is because of Corvo’s appointment that the Outsider has picked this precise moment to make his appearance. Though the guards who Corvo has personally selected for his daughter are skilled and loyal, they are no match for the Outsider’s subtle manipulations. He will not be kept from his goal.

Two guards stand outside the Empress’ study, the door is open, letting the crisp spring air circulate through the rooms. Straightening his back, the Outsider waves his hand as he approaches, rendering the guards blind to his presence. As soon as he is through the threshold, he releases them from the spell. It would be a shame if they could not react with the full benefit of their perceptions, if their Empress was threatened.

Emily lays across the couch, her black-socked feet perched high atop the curved dark wood backrest. Her hair spills loose behind her head, as she holds her book over her face to read.

The Outsider approaches quietly, ready to give her quite the shock. Leaning over her, he casts a dark shadow across her face.

“I know who you are,” she says, turning the page of her novel with complete composure.

Speaking will surely give his identity away, “Oh?”

“You smell of the Void,” she waves her hand, wrapped tightly to conceal his Mark, “and it reacts to your presence.” She finally puts the book down, leaving it open across her chest.

Emily smiles up at him, undisturbed by his unannounced arrival.

“Am I in the Void, then?” she asks, pushing herself up off the couch. Looking about the room, she searches for a break in the illusion. She will find none.

The Outsider shakes his head, “I have come to you, this time.”

Emily scrunches her face, a habit she has kept from her girlhood, no matter how many tutors tried to train the expression out of her fine features. 

“What is it you want?” Instinctively, she wraps her right hand around her left, pressing down on her Mark. 

Of course, she has every reason to believe that this is an exchange of favors. In a way, it is.

The Outsider flops down onto the couch Emily has vacated, crossing one leg over his knee to make himself comfortable. “We could start with tea,” he suggests.

Emily laughs, a refined, deliberate noise, “Will you drink it? Can you drink it?”

The Outsider realizes he's not entirely sure, “I can try.” He taps his black-painted nails against the ridge of his knee.

Dropping her book onto her desk, Emily rings the servants’ bell. They will have to wait, first for the servant to come, then for the tea. The Outsider thinks his stomach churns. But it could just as well be any other sensation. It is still hard to sort through every piece of visceral information that crosses his borrowed nerves. In time, he’ll sort everything out.

“So, why are you here?” Emily sits at the opposite end of the couch, tucking her hands into her lap.

The Outsider is saved from answering by the servant’s arrival. Emily beckons her in. The girl stares at the Outsider, her eyes wide, uncertain. Strange. There shouldn't be anything unusual about his appearance. Nothing to make the girl suspicious of him. Frowning, she looks away. Her hands shake.

Emily asks for tea and cakes to be brought to the study, and to inform the Lord Protector that she is to remain undisturbed. She will call upon him when he is needed. With that, the serving girl shuffles out.

“You do not wish for your father to know about our liaison?”

Sighing, Emily explains, “He will want very little to do with you. And even less will he want me to associate with you. So it is best that he does not know. Now, tell me, what is it you want? Other than tea and sweets.”

The Outsider cannot help but bristle, because it is on Corvo’s account that he has come. But no matter, he can work Emily’s desire for secrecy to his advantage. “Is it so wrong to be concerned with my investments?” he asks, leaning against the backrest.

Emily stares him down, her warm, bright eyes burrowing deep. Those who believe they know Corvo, say they are his eyes. But the Outsider can only see every subtle difference. “You are never merely concerned.”

The servant returns and Emily ushers her in, remaining silent until she has set the spread on the low table across from the Outsider. The girl averts her eyes, refusing to look at the Outsider, even register his presence. Surely, she has seen sights in Emily’s room more compromising than this one. The only potential scandal here is that the good Empress has recently become engaged to another person. Morely is far and Wyman’s responsibilities to their homeland appear unceasing. 

Leaning over, the Outsider plucks a biscuit from the serving tray. It is hard and heavy. The Outsider snaps it in two, crumbs littering across his lap. 

Emily pours herself a cup of tea, no cream, no sugar, but refuses to take a seat. She leans against the corner of her desk, teacup in one hand and her saucer in the other, watching as the Outsider bites into his biscuit.

It’s not as nice as he’d hoped it to be. Dry and coarse as it comes apart in his mouth. He reaches for the tea to pour himself a cup, but something about his face, his movements, must be wrong, because Emily breaks into laughter. 

He wants to snap at her but his mouth is full and the teapot in his hands. So instead he scowls as he pours. Siping from the cup, he tries to wash the grainy biscuit down before realizing he doesn’t care for the tea either. Cream and sugar should mask the bitter taste. 

Emily is still smiling by the time he sorts himself out, regains his composure. He takes the sweetened tea and sits back against the cushions. 

“I suppose you don’t often get sacrifices of strong tea?” Emily jokes.

In truth, he doesn’t consume anything that mortals bring to him. Somewhere, they have mixed up their devotions, mistaken him for a god when really he is only a conduit, a middleman between the Void and men. But there is no entity greater than he. And humans wish to believe.

“I meant what I said before,” the Outsider says, bringing her attention back around to the purpose of his visit, “You should know by now, Empress, that I favor your independence as an actor in history. On that, I do not plan to encroach,” he takes another sip of tea, laced with sugar, he finds the taste more palatable, “My presence here is a matter of curiosity, nothing more.”

Emily puts her cup back atop her saucer, then her saucer on her desk. She takes a stride towards the couch, staring down at the Outsider. When they are both standing, he is three or so inches taller, but like this, she towers over him. Their positions do not trouble him in the slightest. No harm will come to him.

“Your eyes are different,” she comments, tilting her head from side to side.

“I can’t well be seen around Dunwall otherwise. I have only disguised them,” he explains, waving off her comment with one hand.

She shakes her head, “That’s not what I mean.”

The Outsider doesn’t have the slightest notion to what she refers.

\--

The Empress offers to arrange a suite of rooms for the Outsider’s use during his stay. He declines the suggestion, saying he may just as easily come and go from the Void as he pleases. The reality of the situation is more complicated, but he has already made arrangements. 

He tells her that she may make up any story that she pleases, regarding who he is and why they will be spending time together over the coming weeks.

“Weeks?” she asks, huffing as if it is some great inconvenience to have him at her side.

“We shall see,” he concedes. Maybe he can accomplish his aim more swiftly.

She throws her legs up onto the couch, her socked feet padding against the cushions as she fidgets, “And what will we tell my father? He will not be fooled.”

This is the Outsider’s second visit in as many days. They have yet to traverse the Tower grounds, remaining holed up in Emily’s study. And the Outsider would like very much for Corvo to see him. That is rather the point of this exercise. Though Emily’s company is exquisite as well. 

The Outsider shrugs his shoulders, “Tell him nothing. What will he do? Expose me?” the Outsider grins, “the Abbey has long thought him a heretic. Let him go running to them.”

Emily smiles, swirling her wine around the edges of her glass. The Outsider’s glass remains untouched on the table, he likes the color, but not the smell. He won’t tell Emily that. 

“I get you now, I think,” she takes another long sip, emptying the glass before setting it down on the table. She scoops up the Outsider’s wine for herself. “You’re here to fuck with my father.”

The Outsider nearly chokes on his own spit. Her inference is too painfully close to the truth. He wishes to know Corvo, yes, in a way that is impossible to manage from the confines of the Void.   
“You have plans for him, and he won’t,” Emily taps the back of her hand, wrapped in black cloth to obscure her Mark. 

The Outsider concedes, “Perhaps,” he will not force Corvo to accept the Mark a second time. But the Outsider has a great many more things he can offer. 

“Whatever you need him for,” Emily’s face goes quite serious, “I can do it.”

“I assure you, you cannot,” the Outsider drolls, reaching for his glass to have something to do with his hands, before realizing Emily cradles it instead. “You are Empress, and I have muddled too much already in your path,” he makes his excuses. It is too grossly embarrassing to tell the truth of why Emily would be an unsuitable...replacement.

“But changing my father’s fate is acceptable?” she counters, “I am no more important than he.”

Bristling, the Outsider wishes she would just leave him well enough alone on the subject of his interest in Corvo, “You think yourself better at understanding the march of time than I?”

“I have no delusions regarding my own importance. I have stood in the Void, same as my father,” her cheeks are pink now. The Outsider assumes it is from the wine. “And I know it will outlast my reign, outlast my line, outlast Dunwall and the Isles, and the sea.”

The Outsider smiles, “Not the sea. But it will outlast me as well.”

That is enough for today.

\--

The Outsider arrives at the Tower gates, bundled up tightly in his stolen coat. Turned up, the neckline climbs as high as his ears, keeping the whipping wind from the bay from chilling his face. 

It is best that the guards start seeing him coming and going from the grounds, as any visitor would. From his coat pocket, he produces the Empress’ letter, an open invitation to receive him while he is a visitor to Dunwall. Common guards know little of noble names and faces, save that of the Empress and her closest compatriots. The Outsider recognizes the family name of Griffiths, and that they have four sons. They are not interesting in the slightest. But Emily said that three of the boys have black hair, and none have been to Dunwall since the eldest turned twelve. So that will be enough for most to accept his story.

One of the guards escorts him through the gates and they cut a path through the gardens. The Outsider finds the rough, hardy flowers of Dunwall quite striking, though the southern Isles would merely call them weeds. They climb the trellises year round, yet only bloom in late spring. The green buds are still closed tightly. Emily is fond of them. 

She waits for him sprawled out across a stone bench in the paved plaza, surrounded by bare vines. She is not fond of the gazebo. 

Dressed for the weather, her cloak covers up the rest of her attire, save for her tall hunting boots, the leather peaking through the gaps when the fabric rides up. “At least you’re punctual,” she comments, handing off her ledger to her attendant, “Leave us, then,” she bids the woman to depart.

“Are you sure it is wise for us to be alone?” he asks, while the servant and the guard are still within earshot. 

Emily sees the joke for what it is, shoving at the Outsider’s shoulder as she stands, “Worried about your reputation?”

“Always,” the Outsider responds.

They walk the grounds together, each with their hands stuffed in the pockets of their coats. Emily comments that the Outsider needs gloves, then plainly asks if he can actually feel the cold.

“This body is real,” he explains, “as real as I can manage. It is maybe not strictly mine, but it is built of the same material as yours. In a way.”

Emily scrunches up her face, “You stole it then? From someone who looks remarkably like you?”

The Outsider smiles, hoping his amusement is hidden by the high collar of his coat, “It is stolen in bits and pieces. Do not worry, some poor fool is not suffering on my account.”

“Everyone suffers on your account,” she replies.

Turning away, the Outsider corrects her, “I ask for nothing. The faults of humans are not my doing.” He counters, just as cruel, “Is every child starving on your streets your personal responsibility, Empress?”

“Yes,” she says, taken aback, “of course.”

Not for the first time, the Outsider thinks her too sensitive for her position. She has seen her share of death, poverty, and rot. She has seen bloated corpses and carved cadavers. She has bloodied her own hands for the sake of her Empire. Held hearts in her hands. And yet, she remains curiously concerned with the fates of those below her station.

She and the Outsider have many things in common.

They round the bank of hedges only to be confronted by the Royal Protector. It was only a matter of time. The Outsider has been waiting patiently for this confrontation. Waiting for the accusations Corvo is sure to spout. With his sword still at his hip and his lips drawn tight, Corvo’s posture is a spring coiled too tight, right down to his nails. 

Though he is shorter than the Outsider, his shoulders give the illusion of a taller man. His beard run through with gray, lines set in at the corners of his eyes, Corvo’s age shows on his face, in the callouses on his otherwise manicured hands. All of it in composed in perfect symmetry. 

“I was hoping the guards were mistaken,” Corvo’s gaze does not soften, does not falter, firmly fixed on the Outsider. “They said the Empress’ guest resembled the Outsider.” He covers his face with his hand, exasperated with the turn of events. 

Emily laughs at her father’s distress, though it is not cruel, “I suppose he does resemble the Outsider.”

“Emily, don’t joke,” Corvo urges. “What are you doing here?”

The Outsider smiles, showing his teeth, “Having a walk with the Empress. She is free to choose her company.”

Corvo looks to his daughter, distrust and concern writ large across his features. He is capable of being subtle, extraordinarily so. He would make a poor Spymaster, otherwise. But in present company, there is no reason to conceal his distaste. 

“He has not asked anything unreasonable of me,” Emily soothes her father’s concern, “except asking for sweets and then refusing to eat them,” she rolls her eyes.

“What is it you want?” Corvo asks.

The Outsider is so very tired of this question. No answer he gives is satisfactory. Instead, he bites his tongue. 

“I think he’s lonely,” Emily shrugs her shoulders. “Or something like that.”

Balking at her, the Outsider tries to formulate a better answer. One that does not paint him as woefully pathetic. “I have done this before, in ages past. I am only looking for a bit of amusement, dear Corvo. And unless you wish for me to bestow my gift on another…”

“No,” Corvo interjects. “You choose your Marked poorly.”

The Outsider does not point out that both Corvo and Emily count among his ‘poor decisions.’

“Don’t worry, father. Despite everything, he has always acted...in our best interests,” she sounds unsure herself. 

“Besides,” the Outsider corrects, “if I wished to ruin the Empress, do you really think I must walk on two feet to do so?”

Corvo must concede the point.

\--

The Outsider takes to reading Emily’s collection of cheap novels made for the mass market. The language is direct and clean, oriented towards action and always driving forward. He can understand why she likes them.

Emily works, hunched over at her desk, while the Outsider devours story after story of pirates, rogues, and magicians. 

She rubs her eyes after an hour, she rings for tea after two. 

The Outsider asks her if she’ll ever write her own tales?

Snickering, she comments that, “No one will believe them as a memoir. And they are not exceptional enough for fantasy. Besides, I have little skill as an author.”

“You have experienced a great many things, Empress of the Isles,” he flops from his back onto his stomach, placing the book aside. “Your subjects will just eat it up, regardless of your prose.”

She clicks her tongue inside her mouth, “And what of you? Will you write your story? That of a restless, distant god?”

It is the Outsider’s turn to scoff, “Yes, very distant, as I eat cakes at the Empress’ side. As I visit paupers in dreams and make them powerful. As I watch my fr-”

Emily raises her eyebrow, the corners of her lips turning down, “Do you consider us friends?”

“No,” the Outsider did not even mean Emily when he misspoke. Nor did he mean Corvo or any of his Marked. Any human at all. He picks up Emily’s novel again, trying to shield him from her unwavering gaze. She, like her father, is very much like a bird. Too sharp and quick. He won’t let himself be gobbled up like prey.

\--

Corvo corners him in the hall, as the Outsider heads towards the gates. No doubt, Corvo’s informants have dutifully reported that after each visit, ‘Griffiths’ returns ‘home’ to a small, rented apartment just where the posh edge of the city starts to bleed into more middle-class housing. The Outsider has commandeered the rooms as part of his cover, though there is little there of note other than the shrine the previous tenants left behind, built back into a hidden room.

Shoving the Outsider by the shoulder, Corvo presses him into the alcove, shielded on either side by prominent moulding on the wall. The detail is ornate and utterly against the Empress’ tastes, but she inherited this Tower, these Isles, and as such, they will never be truly hers.

“Tell me, please,” Corvo nearly begs, the hard, broad lines of his body crowding the Outsider against the wall. He reaches up above the Outsider’s head, pinning his arm to keep the Outsider caged, using all the tricks he’s learned to make himself look bigger, though he is of perfectly average height. “Why are you here?” he rasps. 

The Outsider rolls into him, his groin grazing against Corvo’s thigh. If Corvo notices, he does not react, his body shifting against the Outsider’s heat, but his face otherwise impassive. 

“Not everything I do is part of some grand scheme,” the Outsider explains, tilting his head to one side, showing Corvo the vulnerable line of his throat. “You know the histories as well as anyone, dear Corvo,” he smiles, “and you know my behavior now is not strange.”

There was a time, long ago now, when Corvo was obsessed with him. His daughter finally safe and sound, installed as child-Empress, Dunwall was in disarray, but Corvo knew he was not a man of politics. In that year after Emily’s kidnapping, Corvo read every account, sought out every oral tale. Tried to understand the Mark that he had accepted, that he could not question while his precious child was in danger. He sought to understand his predicament. But, just as quickly, the mania passed. And Corvo grew apathetic to his lot. For years he refused to even use his gift, before Delilah took it from Corvo by force. 

Corvo’s breathing sinks, pressing up against the Outsider’s sternum. What sweet torture, for the Outsider to have the source of his frail affections so close, and so utterly disinterested. 

The Outsider, twists his hand, grabbing Corvo’s instead and dragging it between their faces. Holding Corvo’s hand in both of his, the Outsider rubs his thumbs against Corvo’s knuckles, down the line of bone to his wrists. 

“You could take it again, if it pleases you,” the Outsider offers. He follows the path of his thumbs with his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Corvo’s hand, where his Mark should shine in brilliant darkness, but instead is bare. Opening his mouth just enough, the Outsider slips his tongue against skin, before drawing back. “No threats this time, dear Corvo, no tragedy to decide for you.”

Certain they are utterly alone, despite the apparent publicness of their position, the Outsider removes the glamour from his eyes, letting the whites deepen back to black. Corvo’s expression softens, taking his hand from the Outsider, but not yet pulling away. He runs his calloused fingers across the ridge of the Outsider’s smooth cheekbone, trailing down to his chin. Perhaps it is the lost familiarity that spurs Corvo to touch him so intimately, seeing the Outsider as Corvo knew him in and of the Void.

Easy, so easy it would be, to drag them both back into its depths. To force Corvo to yield to desire. String him along the path to devotion. The Void can give the Outsider almost everything. Perhaps, perhaps, that is why its chosen warden must be human. Must know restraint true gods are never taught. Because confronted with a boundless source of arcane power, mysteries of the deep that should drive any man mad, the Outsider has always settled for what amounts parlor tricks. Anything more gives him pause. He has long been afraid of his own mastery of the Void.

Oh, but Corvo makes him want to break his vow.

“I can’t,” Corvo finally shudders, but from the way he grinds against the Outsider, it is certain that he wants the bite of power that comes with possession. “It is bad enough...Emily…”

“The Abbey cannot touch her,” the Outsider assures him. The people of the Isles fear the Abbey, but they both fear and love their Empress. The warm flush of their desire will continue to give her the upper hand in the conflicts sure to come. 

“You must stop coming. Someone will discover, they will know.”

And so, the truth comes out. Corvo does not hate him so very much. He only worries about appearances. But diplomacy is far from his strongest attribute. He knows secrets, but not open ones.

“You overestimate the suspicions of men and gods,” the Outsider says, before slipping away from the wall.

\--

The Empress is all but required to attend several formal events in a given year. And, just as importantly, to host a suitable social event herself, as to keep the nobility pliant and praising of her good taste. Though Emily has become more accustomed to her duties with age, she still puts on a show of despising the overwrought posturing of such gatherings. 

“I’ll be in attendance too, of course,” the Outsider reminds her. She has been trying on trousers and matching vests, trying to find something that does not completely offend her personal sense of style. 

She laughs, before realizing he is quite serious, “I suppose I cannot stop you.”

“No,” the Outsider grins, “you cannot.”

She asks his opinion on the hemline of her trousers, stitched with bronzy-gold. He waves her off, commenting that if anything, his tastes are millenia out of date. 

“Everything you wear is perfectly acceptable,” she narrows her eyes. “Fashionable, even.”

The Outsider explains, “It’s stolen, all of it. From a man of my dimensions who works here in the tower. Phillips? Something like that. And before you try and scold me. I always return what I take. He has never noticed.”

“Phillips...Phillips….” she tries to recall the person in question, but comes up empty. “I will have to pay attention next time.”

“He looks nothing at all like me, only he is tall enough and slim,” the Outsider sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “I like the embroidery, I think,” he’s honestly not sure. “But everything I truly think is pleasing, is more ostentatious than what is popular in Dunwall.”

“What you truly like!” Emily explains in mock shock, “Here I thought you found the whole of existence boring.” 

Playing along, the Outsider forces a whine, “I do, you’re all so dreadfully repetitive.”

There is a knock at Emily’s bedroom door, followed by Corvo sweeping in. He holds his mask in one hand. The Outsider can smell blood on his skin, sharp and metallic, mixed in with the salt of his sweat and the sea. The docks. Someone died at the docks. If he focuses, the Outsider can see the woman’s face, cut through with scars. She held someone else’s magic in her hands. While all arcane originates with the Void, there are thieves always scratching at the Outsider’s door. Sometimes they find scraps. The Outsider is not worried.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” Emily admonishes, “the tailor brought some garments for you to try on. She will be back later to make alterations.” She pulls on another vest over her linen shirt, smoothing down the front and appraising herself in the mirror.

“Why is he in your bedroom?” Corvo asks, always preoccupied with the Outsider’s benign presence. 

Emily rolls her eyes, “Next time, I will try on clothes in the main hall, then. If you find that more appropriate.” 

“That’s not what I was implying, Emily….” Corvo concedes. 

The Outsider cannot help but join in, “If you are worried about your daughter’s virtue, I’m afraid you’re near a decade too late and very much have the wrong person. In fact…” the Outsider thinks on it, “your first, she’s married now, isn’t she?”

Emily’s eyes go wide, “Stop!”

“Fine, fine,” the Outsider waves off her concern. He’ll say nothing more of the woman in question. Emily’s own marriage will come soon enough. The Outsider is sure she is delaying the date simply because she wants no part in the planning. It is certainly not because of a lack of certainty in her choice of Wyman, who she adores. “I am no more bothersome here than anywhere else in the Tower, though,” the Outsider chooses his next words carefully, “If you prefer, I can assist the Royal Protector in selecting attire for the party instead.”

Corvo groans at the suggestion, latching his mask back into place to cover his face and stalking out.

“You shouldn’t tease him like that,” Emily cautions, pulling off her shirt and exchanging it for another. 

The Outsider leans back against the couch, pretending to leer at Emily, though it is true, he has no particular desire for her. She is beautiful, of course, in the way a statue might be beautiful, or the sun rising over stormy seas. Vera, lovely Vera, was much the same. But despite what was whispered through Dunwall upon Lady Moray’s return to the Isles, the Outsider never laid with her. 

“That’s interesting, because you never cease to give your father trouble.”

Frowning, Emily reveals that she knows more than the Outsider anticipated, “Yes, because he is my father. But you? He...I know full well what you are trying to do. And I know my father better than he thinks.”

“What am I trying to do, Empress?” the Outsider treads lightly.

“You are...flirtatious with him. I do not know how far that extends,” she huffs, “and honestly I do not want to. But if you mean to make him want you, you succeeded before you even started. Now you merely torture him.”

The Outsider steels his face, not wishing to give his own fragility in the matter away. 

\--

Though they joke about what a scene it would make, the Outsider does not arrive on the Empress’ arm. Instead, he walks through the main doors, invitation in hand. He has not even glanced at the name Emily chose for him for the occasion. Thinking about himself as a name, a human who does not exist, carves a hole in his stomach that he’ll never properly fill.

The hall is thick with guests, dresses and waistcoats and proper boots. Artificial scents that must cost a small fortune swirl together in a mist that is utterly unpalatable. The Outsider can taste the stench when he breathes. 

For once, he has not borrowed his attire from Phillips, but rather chose something on his own. Emily insisted, stating that she is very curious about his so-called taste. 

The room is stuffed full of blacks, whites, and grays, save for the occasional flourish of bold thread, or a piece of patterned fabric lining the inside of a noble’s vest. Dunwall is drab, utilitarian. When a woman dressed in navy floats by, the guests all but stare.

The Outsider had sense enough not to follow Emily’s request to the letter. Otherwise, he would be little more than a sideshow. He can vaguely recall the fashions of his seaside city, a continent away and millennia past. What the rich looked like in gowns of cream and crimson, with necklines so high as to obscure their hair and faces, fanning out behind their heads like peacocks. Trains and frills and shockingly bright blues painted over pale faces. Displays of opulence that the Isles have never known. 

He makes due with small alterations, stitched into modern suit cuts. The inside of his jacket is lined in red, piping just over the fastened flap suggesting how bright the interior really is. His collar is higher and wider than is typical, coming up past his ears. And the cut of his trousers dangerously tight, all the way down to his ankles, where the red piping flashes again. He looks eccentric at most, rather than like a relic or a madman.

The nobles glance in his direction, their eyes curious, gossiping amongst themselves. They notice the Outsider’s strangeness, despite the comparative subtlety of his choices. 

Plucking a glass of wine from the passing servant, the Outsider resigns himself to loneliness within the crowd, disappearing into the swell of bodies. The Empress is yet to arrive, but the gathered crowd appears to care little about her absence. 

The Outsider nearly sips from his glass, before the smell hits him. He won’t like this vintage either. Still, it’s better to at least hold the wine, rather than wander empty handed.

Not a single guest has the courage to approach him, though many stare. He stares back, trying to gauge their intentions, before they hurriedly look away.

Finally, the Empress arrives and the Outsider is no longer the most curious sight in the hall. She apparently decided on the trousers with the velvet seam, reaching from her hip down to the floor. From a distance, it’s hard to make out the detail, but the Outsider remembers from the host of options she asked his opinion on. 

Corvo stalks in behind her at a suitable distance, attempting to remain unobtrusive. But the Outsider knows quite well how many eyes turn from Lady Emily to the Royal Protector, whenever they enter a room.

A familiar twisted knot tightens in the Outsider’s gut. He has watched in silence for years as others have tried to steal a piece of Corvo’s attention. Sometimes, they have succeeded. Sometimes, the Outsider intended to watch the act from the safety of the Void. But each time, he has turned away, unable to face the truth and distance between himself and Corvo.

Emily’s dance partners are political decisions. All of them. The Outsider does not know what her machinations are when the crowd around him parts, and the Empress offers him her hand.

“Like you expected any different,” Emily jokes as the Outsider puts his palm in hers. 

“It was in the realm of possibilities,” the Outsider drolls. 

Corvo watches them like a raptor, as the Outsider and Emily set out for their first dance. The Outsider knows a little bit where to place his feet and his hands. Vera taught him, though, like everything else, time has shifted proper etiquette.

Emily jokes, “I did not expect you to dance so well.”

The Outsider scoffs, “I do everything well.”

They both know that is not true. 

Humming, Emily notes that her father is watching them. The Outsider rightly corrects that it is Corvo’s profession to watch her. 

“He will dance with you too, if you ask,” she offers. A little concession of her knowledge.

“He will put up a show of refusing,” the Outsider knows Corvo’s whims as well. 

“Be kind to him,” she urges, as the music swells and fades. 

The Outsider will not bow to her. And Emily would interpret the gesture as nothing more than mocking. But his refusal to show proper deference to the Empress is duly noted by those in attendance. 

He vacillates on whether to take Emily’s suggestion to approach Corvo. When he looks to Corvo, back straight and at attention, wrists crossed behind his back and face stern, the Outsider doubts very much that he will agree without incident. 

A pretty woman, young and flush with wine, hovers in Corvo’s orbit. The top button of her blouse is open, her vest spreading over the rise of her chest. Corvo looks at her, but his expression does not change. As awkward as he may be at such events, his manners are always perfect.

The Outsider’s attention redirects when he feels at tap at his shoulder. A woman, not quite thirty, asks if he would care to dance. Her light eyes are lined precisely, hair tied back tight and smooth. Handsome, more than beautiful, she offers the Outsider her hand.

He takes her hand in his, though his thoughts remain with Corvo. As they dance, she tries to make conversation, asking if he knows the Empress very well? Their song is a political interlude for her, a frivolous distraction for him. But still, the entire experience is pleasant enough, even if the woman appraises him oddly when she steps away. 

When he glances back at Corvo, the Royal Protector’s eyes are on him.

Emily circles back around, pulling the Outsider aside for a moment. She smells a little like her drink, her cheeks pink. She doesn’t have the constitution of her mother, and gets drunk very easily. “You’re scaring people,” she smiles. “You think you’re so charming. But they are afraid.”

“I have done nothing,” he argues, realizing that the guests around them can hear. 

“You stare,” she says.

“I do not.”

Emily shakes her head, “I never thought before to correct you. But you do.”

“I look at people perfectly normally,” the Outsider wills his voice to stay even. He has no idea what she’s talking about.

“You really do not know?” she scrunches up her face. “When you speak to someone, yes, you keep your head at the same angle, so you’re looking at them when they talk.” Putting her hands on the Outsider’s shoulders, she demonstrates. “But you’re not supposed to hold their eyes the whole time. Haven’t you noticed, watch.” She averts her eyes, then flicks them back to the Outsider’s. “You’re supposed to look away sometimes, without actually turning your head. But you? You just stare.”

The Outsider frowns. He does not really see the difference.

Emily groans, patting him on the shoulder before departing, ready for her next dance. 

Balling his hands into fists, the Outsider stalks towards Corvo’s position in the shadows. He is not dressed so very different from his typical attire, though the fabrics are finer and the cut more precise. The brass of his buttons are without the weathering of age and the jacket has full length sleeves, covering up his dark undershirt. As always, he is armed, though his gun is not to be seen, his sword hangs heavy on his hip.

“You should dance with me,” the Outsider says. Though Emily has been helpful in pointing out the error of his gaze, he knows that Corvo can be no more terrified of his presence than he already is. 

“I am here to protect the Empress,” he says, though he has not spent much time watching her. 

“It is by the Empress’ suggestion,” the Outsider responds..

Corvo looks away, watching his daughter on the dance floor. When he does not look back to the Outsider, the Outsider resigns himself to simply standing next to the Royal Protector.

Together they watch the crowd sway to the music. Most of all, they watch Emily. As much time as she spent complaining about the event, she appears to be enjoying herself now. 

Corvo does not tell him to leave. So the Outsider contents himself with standing at Corvo’s side. If this is all that Corvo will allow, the Outsider must make due. In time, Corvo will die, swallowed up by the Nothing beyond the Void. So singular, so precious, but like everything else the Outsider has seen in his long existence, Corvo will fade. 

The Outsider cannot recall his own name, or the exact color of his eyes before death, or what dreams he may have held before the blade bit into his neck. But he will remember Corvo. A sort of second sacrifice. The only person to drive the Outsider to wish being something other than what he is.

In time, Corvo will be forgotten. Because the Outsider will not reign forever. He is not synonymous with the Void. And with every Leviathan slaughtered on the shore, he feels his control wanning. The Outsider cannot think of a fate befitting of Sokolov. Of his crimes. The Outsider will always hate him. But if not this scientist, then it would be another, marking the Outsider for extinction. 

So many have wished to kill him. Ironic that the one who will ultimately succeed, thinks so very highly of his prey.

Emily joins them, once the song reaches its close. Two hopefuls follow her along, trying to drag her attention back to the floor. She grabs her father’s hands, squeezing tight and asking if he’s alright. They have not danced together since she turned sixteen. Though it is no longer necessary to conceal Emily’s parentage, neither do they flaunt it. 

One of Emily’s hanger-ons cannot take his eyes off of the Outsider, glancing away at intervals as appropriate. His curiosity makes him brave. “You look familiar,” he comments, trying to place how he knows the Outsider’s face.

“I look like the Outsider,” he says with utter confidence. 

Corvo turns sharply, his concern barely concealed. He worries too much.

“People remark on it all the time,” the Outsider grins.

Emily laughs, playing along, “You’re not nearly as handsome.”

Corvo doesn’t know who to admonish first. 

“Quite tiresome, really, I mean, for a god, you think he could pick a form better than some scrawny, sallow, waif.” He shakes his head, “If it were me, I’d pick claws, and tentacles. A real terror of the deep.”

“Oh, what big suction cups you have,” Emily feigns. 

Everyone else involved in the conversation appears utterly perplexed. 

The music begins anew and one of Emily’s partners manages to coax her to the floor. The other, who commented on the Outsider’s appearance, hesitates a second more before descending.

Corvo’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his sword. The Outsider registers every nervous movement, the way tension swarms Corvo’s nerves. Buzzing bees inside his skin.

“If I dance with you, will you leave me be?”

The Outsider tilts his head, but Corvo stares straight ahead, waiting for an answer. Whatever excuse Corvo needs, the Outsider will concede..

“No promises, but it is a start.”

Corvo groans, but extends his hand. The Outsider takes it, letting Corvo lead. The giddy lightness in his stomach carries the Outsider onward.

He places one hand at Corvo’s neck, the other against his chest. He does not care that the position of his hands are not proper, forcing Corvo to readjust.

“That's not right,” Corvo frowns, picking the Outsider’s wrist from off his chest.

“Improvise,” the Outsider urges, drawing their bodies too close together for the pace of the song.

If Corvo is concerned with the deepening the level of their intimacy, it does not show. He curls his hand around the Outsider’s hip, the other firmly in his partner’s hand. His breath falls hot against the shell of the Outsider’s ear in a steady beat, inhale, exhale, step, touch. In the narrowing of the Outsider’s vision, the Void opens up around them, singing soft against the Outsider’s skull. Come home, little one, come home. But the Outsider wishes to stay a bit longer.

‘You wish to be adored,’ the Void calls out to him. ‘Like you have always adored him.’

The Outsider swallows thickly. He hopes Corvo cannot hear. Because at the moment, many eyes are upon them. Eyes that have appraised Corvo before, and wanted him, tried to drag him off to bed. And the Outsider wishes to leave no question regarding Corvo’s availability as a lover.

Mine, mine, mine.

The heat flares inside him, as Corvo’s hand shifts.

“Dear Corvo,” he rasps into his ear, “why do you fight this? Fight me?” The evidence of Corvo’s desire is writ large across his face. Unfaltering attention and the press of his body. 

“I am not some toy, built for your amusement,” Corvo whispers. “I am not your pet, your possession. You may be a god,” he concedes, “but I will not bow to your whims.”

The Outsider’s face reddens, dizziness setting in. If only Corvo understood, how much the Outsider wishes to be possessed himself, if only for an evening. 

One song has ended and another begun, but they do not part. And the Outsider would do it now, drop to his knees in front of the assembled crowd, show Corvo the meaning of worship.

“You're hard,” Corvo comments, as if it's a perfectly reasonable observation.

“And the guests are staring,” reaching to the back of Corvo’s neck, the Outsider strokes his fingers against his hair.

“The song is ending.”

The Outsider does not correct him, that this is their third.

Corvo pulls away, his face warm and the front of his jacket slightly rumpled. When he turns, the back of his hair is a mess from the Outsider’s fingers. Part of the room follows Corvo’s gait. Another section lingers on the Outsider, abandoned on the floor.

Fuck Corvo and fuck his indecisiveness.

The Outsider strides towards the doors. He cannot stay here.

Shaking with rage, he will not dawdle a moment longer. Though instead of heading for the gate, he slips past the guards and climbs the stairs that will take him to Corvo’s suite.

The room is locked, but that is little trouble. The Outsider waves his hand over the lock and the pins fall into place. He lights the lamps, one by one, chasing back the darkness.

For all their past intimacies, the Outsider has never stood in this room. 

He shucks his coat and shirt, leaving them messily on the floor. Boots, socks, trousers, a trail leading to Corvo’s bed. If Corvo denies him this last time, he will render all of this as if it never was, strike the events of the past few weeks from Corvo’s memory, and try to erase it from his own. Such an embarrassment.

No, no that will not do. Because the Outsider will ache for Corvo again. He will repeat his mistakes, if he is not forced to remember. And for a giddy moment, the Outsider fears he has done this all before. That he has tried to lay his hands on Corvo and failed. 

He pushes the thought away, climbing into Corvo’s bed. He bunches the sheets around his body, though the fine cotton does little to keep out the cold. Laying back, he waits for Corvo to return from the party, first one hour, then two.

It is late by the time the door opens. Corvo unbuttoning the front of his jacket as he steps inside. He tenses when he finds the lamps alight, relaxing when he notices the clothing strewn across the floor.

The Outsider pushes himself up in bed, leveling his gaze at Corvo. “Tell me to go, if this is not what you want.”

What mundane materials did the Outsider use to build his heart? Because now, the molecules unfurl inside his chest, threatening to break.

Corvo says nothing. Neither sending him away nor dashing at the opportunity to bed him. Pulling off his coat, Corvo drapes it over the back of his chair.

“I told you, I am not yours to do with what you please.”

The Outsider pulls back the sheets, putting his bare feet to the ground. With sure steps, he closes the space between them, before descending to his knees. “Should I ask what pleases you?”

Corvo’s breath comes ragged, as he reaches down to thread his fingers through the Outsider’s dark hair. The Outsider shifts his eyes, removing the whites.

“Even now, you mock me,” Corvo says.

“No, Corvo, no,” he smiles, “is it so hard to believe I want this? Want you to have me in your bed, on your floor, wherever pleases you.” 

Corvo’s fingers drift lower, until his thumb slips into the Outsider’s mouth. “What are you?” he asks in quiet awe.

At least this time, the question is a different one.

“Many things, dear Corvo.”

_But, most of all, yours._

Corvo kneels in front of him, putting them eye to eye. Placing his hand against the Outsider’s cheek, he draws their lips together. The Outsider presses back, draping his arms over Corvo’s shoulders as they kiss, slow, with a quiet desperation of a bloom already beginning to wilt.

“You have intended from the start to destroy me,” Corvo says, pulling back. His eyes are open, fond. “I cannot imagine why.”

“You're wrong, Corvo,” the Outsider smiles, “I have only intended to follow my own desires. And hope that yours were the same.”

Corvo reaches for the Outsider’s hand, dragging him up off the floor and pushing him towards the bed. As they travel, Corvo’s hands roam down the Outsider’s sides, until he comes to cup his ass, grinding their hips together and slowing their progress. The bite of Corvo’s belt buckle cuts into the Outsider’s stomach.

“Tell me that you want me,” the Outsider requests. He wants to hear it from Corvo’s lips.

Corvo strips from his shirt, his chest broad, covered in hair that is still dark, despite the gray cut through on his head and in his beard. He climbs atop the Outsider, pushing him down onto the mattress.

“I doubt you can understand,” Corvo thrusts against the Outsider’s naked cock. His own trousers still firmly on his hips, “how much I desire you.”

The Outsider cannot help but laugh. Corvo’s face turns sour.

“I have twisted in my shackles, broke apart my very being, stitched together anew, for a mere chance at this moment. Do not let it go to your head, Corvo. But understand me when I say the depth of my affections for you is a dangerous thing indeed.” He pushes himself up on his elbows, biting at Corvo’s lip, “now get your damn pants off.”

Corvo complies, stripping off the final layers between them. He slots his hips between the Outsider’s, so they're skin on skin, all the way down.

The Outsider moans into Corvo’s open mouth, consumed, finally by the heat and weight and smell of him. The Void is there, yes. Ever over the Outsider’s shoulder. But Corvo’s kisses beat back the tide of loneliness. 

“Corvo, Corvo, Corvo,” the name itself has its own flavor in his mouth. “I want you inside,” he urges.

Corvo pushes the hair back from the Outsider’s forehead. The light from the lamps tints his skin gold. “And you say you are not here to ruin me,” Corvo shakes his head.

Reaching into the nightstand drawer, Corvo rummages around for a vial of oil. The Outsider already misses the pressure of his body, but it's well worth the sacrifice when the first of Corvo’s fingers push inside.

Corvo’s other hand is slick as well, stroking the Outsider’s cock with the same steady rhythm of his thrusts. The Outsider arches his back, spine coming up off the mattress, trying to throw his hips into the pace that Corvo sets.

Though the Outsider feels well enough prepared, Corvo refuses to relent, his face set in concentration. The Outsider takes initiative, batting Corvo’s hand away from his cock with a groan. “On your back,” the Outsider urges.

Corvo complies, withdrawing his fingers from the Outsider’s hole. He wipes his hand against the bedsheets. 

Propping his back against the headboard, Corvo waits for the Outsider to position himself, spreading his thighs across Corvo’s lap. Digging in the sheets, the Outsider finds the oil, dribbling it into his hand and letting it warm, before slicking Corvo’s cock.

Corvo shudders at the attention, the smooth glide of the Outsider’s hand around his shaft. Leaning in, the Outsider puts his lips against Corvo’s throat. Whispers, “soon.”

The Outsider lifts his hips, positioning himself over Corvo’s cock and sinking down. The stretch and burn hits him harder than he anticipates. The steady pressure of being filled. Corvo’s teeth are at his clavicle. Not biting, merely waiting. The Outsider would let him drink, if he wished. But he knows Corvo is not that sort of man.

Rocking his hips, the Outsider tenuously feels out his comfort, chasing the pleasure he knows he’ll find. Corvo wraps his hands around both hips, steadying the Outsider’s experimental thrusts. 

The Outsider wraps his arms around Corvo’s shoulders, pulling him away from the headboard, trying to keep his warmth for his own. Corvo kisses against his neck, desire humming in his throat. Riding with quiet confidence, the Outsider keeps his eyes open, watching as Corvo watches him. Corvo’s hands slip between their bodies, stroking the Outsider’s cock as they both gain momentum. 

It's quiet, and more profound than the Outsider expected. Desire is one thing. This is entirely another.

“Corvo,” he groans, too close to finishing already.

Hitching forward, Corvo throws the Outsider onto his back. The force of it pushes the excess air from between the sheets, billowing up around the, before sinking back to the mattress. Corvo plants his arms on either side of the Outsider’s shoulders, driving in deep. With enough force to rock the bed frame.

The shift in pace knocks the wind out of the Outsider, his cock rubbing between their abdomens. He tries to reach between them, to bring himself off, but Corvo rasps into his ear, “I’ll do it. You won't forget me. No matter how many civilizations stand between us.”

Even before tonight, that statement would be true.

The friction between them is too much and not enough and frustrates the Outsider to the point of exhaustion. Every pleasure falling into place. He feels full and taut. Layered with affections that stream from Corvo’s parted lips. The Outsider will swallow up every morsel of Corvo’s attention.

When the Outsider comes, it's on the steady push of Corvo’s cock inside him. He shouts into his lover’s neck, loud enough that passing servants would surely hear. Corvo breathes heavy, lamenting his destruction, as he spills inside the Outsider’s pliant body.

The hum of sex is still in the Outsider’s arteries when Corvo pulls out, tugging at his spent cock to ensure that he is empty. Satisfied, he lays back down against the sheets, dragging his hand over the Outsider’s side, letting it settle at his waist.

“You will not come back, now that you've gotten what you wanted,” Corvo says.

It is true that the Outsider must vacate this shell, return to the Void before much longer. But not for the reasons Corvo believes. “And you? You refuse to come to me,” the Outsider argues. As so many times before, they have reached an impasse.

“A god’s consort,” Corvo jokes, “I have been called worse things.”

“Hmm, they may call me the Royal Protector’s bedwarmer instead. You never know how these trends go. Kids today and their vernacular.”

Corvo laughs, “Kids today? You are well aware you look younger than my daughter?”

The Outsider scoffs, “everyone has an opinion on my appearance.”

“I thought you appreciated my assessment of your looks.”

“I do,” the Outsider drums his fingers against Corvo’s chest. The morning will come too soon. “You do not need to take my Mark….in order to reach the Void. You must only ask. Everything else is by my whims.”

“That an invitation?” Corvo asks.

The Outsider likes that question,

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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